


To The Point

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3416786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England. France. An afternoon’s archery for England, which France seems keen to disturb. Modern day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To The Point

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of old fic from my tumblr.  
> No excuse for this other than I like very occasionally playing around with longbows. ~~And archer!England is hot.~~

So many years and England is still the archer he was as a not-quite-child, letting the horns of his great longbow take his weight as he bends the bow, pulling back the silk bowstring somewhere just before full draw. He'd boasted once, centuries ago, that his children, like him, had been trained to know full draw on instinct, English boys good archers long before they became men. France, lamenting the loss of an intractable but still somehow hopelessly _cute_ little hanger-on, then losing in a war because he didn’t have a mortal lifetime to have his own children trained in those same lethal ways, had done his level best to have those boy-men slain before they’d decimated his own armies, his own soldiers dying bloody and gasping in the mud from the cloud of lethal rain coming at them from above.

(There are many reasons France has always favoured a knight’s sword to a commoner’s bow. On _both_ sides of the battlefield. Chivalry is dead, gurgling, with a British arrow through its throat.)

Those days are long (and thankfully) gone but England apparently still retains his lessons. He slides his feet apart in the old stance on the dew-wet grass of his country home’s back lawn and takes position, bow raised and arrow smoothly notched as though to add another shaft to the already bristling rope target set-up a good distance away down the immense garden. The adorable traits of childhood in the Nation-man of England are all definitely, _definitely_ gone, but perhaps age and archery lend a _different_ sort of (thankfully adult) attractiveness to him – litheness and discipline, focus and experience.

And yet it is still such a strange thing to see from the side: England so intent, arms and arrow and shoulder in an unnaturally natural straight line, his sleeves rolled back to elbow, and glove-guards dark against his skin. It’s a full draw this time; the arrow’s bright fletching just tickles the height of England’s cheek.

One beat.

Two beats.

Three beats.

Too long.

France, watching from where he’s languidly sprawled out in a chair in the garden’s patio area and enjoying both the wine he’d liberated from his _charming_ host’s cellar upon his uninvited arrival at the other’s home and the vague sunshine that keeps poking its head out from behind the dreary English clouds from time to occasional time, can’t help himself. (It’s a slow afternoon.)

“Too _slow,_ mon cher! Are you losing some of your accuracy in your old age?”

England, carefully relaxing his hold again, probably can’t help himself either. Reflex. “Piss _off_ , frog.”

France just clicks his tongue chidingly – truly, England should be just a little too far away from him to hear the quiet sound, but an answering irritable frisson- _twitch_ is evident down the sharp slope of the Englishman’s back all the same. Ah, _well_. If absence, as they say, makes the heart grow fonder, _presence_ can be said to lead to predictability and experiences that make you want to throttle one’s fellow man.

…At least on slightly less lazy days. France simply cannot bring himself to summon up the effort and ire required for attempted murder on _this_ day in particular (especially after already making his way across the Channel to quell his boredom), reaching out one languorous hand to pour the last of the wine on the patio table beside him into his glass. It’s good to get away from stress and paperwork for a little while and take fun in old amusements, and it’s a nice day (by British standards), England isn’t cooking and trying to subtly guilt him into eating biohazardous waste (poorly) masquerading as baked produce, and the wine is a decent _tinto_ from Spain, a rather deliciously oaky Rioja crienza.

And of course, an afternoon practicing his beloved archery (even with France’s presence making him constantly _grouch_ ) has made England mellow enough to – fairly – safely torment. The day’s entertainment is assured.

“But _really_ ,” France says, sighs melodramatically as though he is very put-upon to be relaying this particular information to the companion slowly turning to face him with a frown, “I thought holding a draw for too long was bad for both the archer _and_ his bow? You’ll break your precious longbow, and between _that_ and the strain you’re putting on your draw arm, you’ll be working sulky tension-knots out of your spine for _weeks._ ”

Bow grasped safely in one hand, unfired arrow dangling between forefinger and middle finger of the other, England just eyes him. Relaxation is apparently not contagious. “Your sudden concern for my health is both suspicious and alarming.”

France just shrugs back at his host (there are _far_ too many answers to make to a statement as open as that, and most of them would end up with him getting promptly thrown out of the British Isles with a boot up his behind), smiling graciously as he raises his glass to his lips. “You were taking too long to aim.”

Another twitch. “I was not _aiming_.” Of course. “I _was,_ however,enjoying the peace and quiet before _you_ decided to butt in, the burn in my muscles from a good afternoon’s sport.”

France just, airily, waves the comment off. “You can achieve the same effect with a good bedding.” With less potential death – of the very English variety – involved. “Do you recall that thing you call the ‘ _afterglow’_? It must be so long since you last experienced it.”

England colours red. “Just because I don’t play international bedroom _leapfrog_ -”

“Chéri, I don’t think you even play bedroom _tiddlywinks._ ”

There’s a smooth blur of movement that lasts a breath of _merde_ and France freezes out of old instinct as something whistles – _close –_ past his cheek, a sharp passing wind that pushes his hair back from his face and _thuds_ something into the house’s wall behind him.

Not something; England is lowering his bow again, draw hand now empty.

Not something; an arrow.

…

That had definitely been a lot shorter than three beats.

The danger…mostly passed, the petulant heave of England’s chest (that he has always had, even when young, chest puffed and fists tight after some self-appointed task of his was, to _his_ mind, well done: _notice me, frog,_ an explosion waiting to happen if France did/does not) aside, France sets his glass down on the table. Delicately.

There is an arrow in the wall behind him. Because he feels it is expected of him, and because he needs just a few moments (he will afford England no more) to restrain himself from saying something incredibly rude and giving his _gracious_ host any further pleasure, France turns in his seat to take a look at it, pushing back his disturbed hair from where it flutters by his cheek as he does so and tucking the strands smoothly behind one ear. Careless (careful) grace.

For all intents and purposes, that last shot had been a beautifully fast, clean loose from England, and, were France anyone other than who he is, and had it not been – _mostly –_ aimed at him, France would have grudgingly admired it. As circumstances are, however, not as proposed in those favourable conditions, France lets the silence hang a little longer – the breeze softly blowing, the birds (they had _better_ be birds) in the garden’s bushes rustling, and the sun sneaking a little further out from behind the clouds, sweetly gold.

And then: “If I had moved even slightly, that would have hit me.”

“Think how disappointed I must feel.” England’s voice is flat. Something in him relaxes though, and he turns on his heel, heading off down the garden, no doubt intending to retrieve his other arrows from the target. “I was the one who missed.”

Brat.

France stands and calls after him: “I hope your string snaps and hits you in the face!”

England doesn’t bother to turn around and look at him, busy trying to yank his arrows out from where they’re buried in rope. His voice floats back: “I don’t miss _twice,_ frog!”

France sits hurriedly down again, and once more goes for his wine.

Horribly, horribly, uncute _brat._


End file.
